Don't Keep me Waiting
by Summer-Psychosis
Summary: For many, waiting is a tedious thing. Waiting is something they cry out against in abhorrence, “Don’t keep me waiting!” Alfred wishes he could say that.


**Don't Keep me Waiting**

_oneshot_

**Author's Note:** Hey, guys! First fanfiction, but not my first time writing! I'm looking forward to starting my projects. For now, take this quick little drabble – it's all I have to offer at the moment. Currently I'm working on a joint-project…it's got me really excited! Hopefully this drabble will hold you guys off for a while.

**Rating: **T, just because I'm not quite sure how to rate for the affection that goes on. Playing it safe is the best way to go!

**Pairing: **UKxUS

* * *

For many, waiting is a tedious thing. Waiting is something they cry out against in abhorrence, "Don't keep me waiting!"

He wishes he could say that.

Alfred waits every day. Through his experiences, he has become a patient man, despite his cries of, "Hurry up!" and "You're so slow!" He grows fast, yes, but isn't it ironic that he's stubborn as well? Many of his people don't like change. While tight-lipped on such things, Alfred really is very stubborn on things changing too quickly.

He wants to hold onto the moment. Alfred, the romanticist, wants to grasp that pretty feeling in his stomach of the butterflies fluttering their wings, the chills up his spine when the hand of the person he's waited so long to feel on his skin rushes up, and the feel of delicate lips on his skin, kissing him just slightly, enough to make him ask for more. He's never felt these because he is forced to wait, but he knows that when he feels them, they will be the things he'll cling to stubbornly.

No one knows it, but America likes to reminisce. Alfred likes to think about the past. He remembers the beautiful summery days when he would run in the fields with his wild friends, hair tangled and messy, free as a bird in the sky. Often, he finds himself smiling at the memories he has with his old caretaker. Most glorified in history are painful, but those are the memories he holds onto for the sake of his people. The ones he cares for are those no one quite remembers.

These memories are so beautiful to him. Thinking about the way he used to sit in England's—then Great Britain's—lap, listening to the stories he'd tell about the constellations. Every figure in the sky seemed to have history back then, and this was something he clearly remembered. In particular, he enjoyed the story of the river, the Milky Way, as England had called it.

Now he knew that the Milky Way was a band of the galaxy itself, by the same name. Alfred still finds himself looking up at the night sky while he waits. Its beauty is just too captivating, all too breathtaking, to ignore. When he sees that central band of the galaxy, he says, "I'm still waiting for you. Are you going to cross the river?" Of course he will! Alfred keeps telling himself this, but he can't quite believe it.

He watches the sun set sometimes, as well. While not as beautiful as the Milky Way, it has its own kind of attractiveness. All of the colors he sees make his eyes water, on some days when he is feeling emotional. The sunset holds memories of lying on grassy hilltops, next to England, laughing as his ticklish belly is put under the torture of playful, nimble hands. When he thinks of this, he grins and laughs along with his childhood self.

"Oi, America! Are you coming?"

Alfred turns suddenly, smile fading for just a moment, before he remembers to grin. "Yeah, England! Be there in a sec!" He grabs his things as quickly as he can and runs from the meeting room as quickly as he can. Hastily, he falls into step with England, passing through the hallways of the building.

The situation is ironic: Arthur begins to rant about how he had kept him waiting, while the good-for-nothing-America stood there, staring out the window for ten minutes straight. "Stop keeping me waiting, arsehole!"

Alfred shakes his head, his mood suddenly dampened. "How long do I have to wait for you, England?" It's no more than a whisper, but it makes Arthur freeze in his tracks. The acute sense of hearing the elder nation possesses allows him to pick up exactly what was said.

"Alfred? What do you mean by that?" Arthur turns to look over at America, but the nation has already bolted down the hallway and through the double-doors leading to the staircase! "Alfred! _Alfred!_" The elder nation pursues the other blond at a speed he hopes will allow him to catch up. He finds, however, that it is difficult to sprint down seven flights of stairs. Cursing as he slips on a step and tumbles down the staircase, rolling into the nearby wall, Arthur groans, rubbing at his ribs. He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, and begins to question himself. "_Alfred, what the hell did you mean by that…?_"

* * *

Alfred likes to spend his weekends at home, sometimes with a video game to play, other times with a movie to watch. He likes to have a cup of coffee in the mornings, with half an orange, two eggs, and a few strips of bacon for breakfast. The idea of curling up on the sofa to watch the news in the evening is one he has always liked and always done. On occasion, he will have a piece of fruit, or a serving of potato chips, sometimes even a sandwich.

He finds the little things in life the very best, and feels strange when he can't follow his weekend rituals.

As he thinks of waiting for a program to come on, he decides not to. When he doesn't have to wait, he won't. He does it far too often in life to be patient at other times. So he draws his knees up to his chest and flips through the channels, looks for something else to ease his boredom. For a moment, he contemplates taking another shower, just so he may busy himself with something—never mind that he has taken one three hours prior!

The doorbell rings. His head turns towards the door. Reluctant to leave the warm space on the sofa, Alfred sighs as he stands. "I'll be there in a minute! Wait just a minute," he calls as loudly as he can as he briskly trots to the door, unlocking it and throwing it wide open. He is surprised to see Arthur at the door. "Arthur? What are you doing here?"

"I came to visit for the weekend," Arthur explains, clutching the handle of his suitcase a little tighter. "May I come in?"

"Uh, sure," Alfred steps aside to allow England inside, closing the door behind him.

England glares and locks the door for him. "Don't forget to do that, git."

"Sorry," he laughs in response. Before Arthur can protest, Alfred grabs the suitcase he brought and rushes up the stairs, putting it in the guest room he has set aside for Arthur. He walks down the stairs, only to be met by the glaring, angry guest he just took in.

"Alright. Now that you're here, do you mind doing something for me?" England was irritated.

Alfred knew—he just _knew_—what Arthur wanted from him. So he decided to stall. Instantaneously, he was rushing past him into the kitchen. "You want me to make you tea, right? I keep some of your favorites in the pantry."

His mouth was opened to respond with anger, but it closed slightly as soon as the last words were uttered. "You…you do? Really?" England steps into the kitchen and watches Alfred rifle around, one thick eyebrow raised in surprise.

"Yeah! You visit me often, so why should I not?" Alfred turns to grin at Arthur before rifling through his pantry for a packet of tea. "How about some English Afternoon?" He pulls a packet out and rips it open, placing the bag in the teacup and putting the kettle on the stove after filling it with water. When this is done, he sits Arthur down at the kitchen table.

"I can't believe you actually have all these teas in your pantry. What blend did you pick?" Arthur has his hands folded politely in front of him on the tabletop.

"Ceylon. I thought you'd want something lighter, since it's only four o'clock."

"Hm! You know me pretty well, Alfred," Arthur smirks.

The kettle whistles its readiness loudly. Alfred hops up, pulls it from the stovetop, and drowns the tea bag in burning hot water. He places the kettle back onto the stovetop, carries the teacup over to Arthur, and places it down in front of him. "Here you go, Arthur."

England waits several minutes before blowing on the steaming-hot liquid, pulling it close to his lips. Before he takes a careful sip, he peers over the cup at Alfred, across the table, and murmurs, "really, you know me too well."

"English Afternoon, without sugar or milk. You like the flavor the most plain, right?" Alfred grins at the slight smile he works out of Arthur.

"Exactly! Ah, you're good at this," Arthur laughs, taking another sip.

Alfred smiles to himself. He drifts off into thought. To think that he'd learned this all when he was just a colony! Alfred watched Arthur drink his tea three times a day, taking note of what he'd use with each of them. In the mornings, with his English Breakfast, he would drink it with milk and a small bit of sugar. At noon, sometimes later, he would have English Afternoon plain. During dinner, he would drink Earl Grey with a minimal amount of milk. America never quite liked tea himself, but he still watched England drink his favorite teas at the right times, memorizing the way he drank them so that one day he could do such things as he had done today.

"Alfred?" Arthur has finished his tea. He looks directly at the nation across from him at the small, circular kitchen table, brows furrowed. "Alfred, are you paying attention?"

"I am now," he shakes his head, grinning slightly. "What were you saying?"

"I want to know something," Arthur clears his throat, "I want to know what you meant the other day."

Alfred stiffens. "Um, n-nothing. I didn't say anything! Hahaha…you must have just made that up, England. You're getting older!"

"You clearly know what I'm speaking of," Arthur glares at him. "Come on, now, out with it! I don't care to play this little game of yours all day, America."

"Fine." Alfred sighs with defeat. Arthur will not relent until he gets what he wants. "I just…I just meant—how long am I going to have to wait for you? How long is it going to take for you to notice more about me than what I do as a nation? Aren't I a person, too? And if that's the case, do you even care?"

Arthur wets his lips with his tongue. "Alfred…what are you saying?"

He won't meet his eye. "I'm saying…I'm saying, please notice me. Please don't make me wait anymore, Arthur. I want to—to…to experience more than I have with someone. Not just someone, though! You."

"Me?" The tone Arthur uses is one of disbelief.

"Yes, you," Alfred replies huffily.

"B-But…why? Why me?"

"Because! You're special to me, Arthur. I always think about you whenever something happens. I'm always wondering how you're feeling, or if you're happy, or lonely, or if I should visit you, or if you think of me just as often as I think of you," he pauses to catch his breath, "a-and a million other reasons I could list off the top of my head!" Arthur is silent. In a quieter tone, Alfred speaks again, "I'm sorry. You probably don't want to hear this, or…something like that. Maybe you just don't feel the same. Sorry if I bothered you, Arthur." He stands to find something else to do, and for a moment, he considers showering again a second time.

"Now wait just one minute!" Arthur howls, standing up and pushing Alfred back down into his abandoned seat, glaring angrily. "If you're going to say something, at least let me reply!"

Alfred frowns. "Alright, alright…" He prepares himself for impending rejection, eyes cast downward.

"Look at me, Alfred." Alfred feels his chin being tugged upward, his eyes forced to meet Arthur's. "Alfred, you really are silly. I've been waiting for _you_…or so I thought. Truth be told, I really do enjoy your company, and most of all, I strive to be with you as often as possible, because it's so comforting and warm that way…I really feel happy when I am with you. So what I am telling you, I suppose, is that we've been waiting for one another, when we could have simply gotten things over with a long time ago!" He smirks, sliding onto Alfred's lap and wrapping his arms around the broad shoulders of the man beneath him, leaning his forehead against Alfred's. "You know me very well, Alfred. You always have."

"Arthur," he breathes, so faint Arthur strains to hear it, so quiet because of his shock. This emotion is easily spotted by his facial expression, which turns from wide-eyed to content to ecstatic, his heart thumping wildly against Arthur's ribcage, pressed so close.

He does not say anything more than that name due to time restrictions. Soon after, Arthur has closed the small gap between their lips and brought them even closer. Alfred finds himself wrapping his arms around Arthur's waist, fidgeting slightly. The kiss is broken too quickly for Alfred to comprehend, but another quick kiss is given as if in apology, in the very same spot. They share small, quick kisses between very short words: explanations, teasing words, accusations or compliments, and the occasional inquiry.

The feel of those gentle, soft kisses melts Alfred to the core. He knows he'll hold onto these memories stubbornly, because they are what he's waited for. And he knows, most of all, that he'll be waiting for much more than what he's received this particular weekend.


End file.
